New Jersey Pines and the Cipher Shrine
by Sidekicks-anonymous
Summary: Stanley "New Jersey" Pines is an acclaimed treasure hunter, respected (or at least tolerated) in the archaeology community. But he's never forgotten what he left behind. When his brother goes missing during the search for an ancient shrine, Stan has to unravel the mystery behind his disappearance-and behind the Cipher Shrine. Rated T because it's basically an Indiana Jones movie.


New Jersey Pines and the Hunt for the Cipher Shrine

Chapter 1

 _The tomb was dark. His torch lit a small circle around him, deepening the shadows beyond. Jersey Pines ran a hand over the wall, feeling ancient carvings beneath his fingers. They were chipped and faded with age. He'd have to take a rubbing on his way out—the nerds at the college would go crazy for 'em—but right now he had bigger goals in mind. Bigger, shinier goals._

 _After what seemed like hours, he reached an arch. The gilded stone and elegant carvings marked it as the entry to the burial chamber. Jersey leaned in, letting the light of the torch splash into the room. A crouched figure sat in the middle, surrounded by the remnants of food baskets long since rotted away. The figure was heaped with golden jewelry that glimmered in the lamplight._

 _The tomb of King Catequil. Jackpot._

 _As tempting as it was to run right in and grab what he needed, Jersey knew better. He scanned the floor thoroughly for markings or irregularities. Booby traps were a possibility, but so was a weakened floor, and either could kill him if he wasn't careful. Only after he'd swept the chamber three times did he approach the mummy._

 _The gold jewelry was heavy in his hands. He removed several of the best pieces, careful not to damage the mummy underneath. With luck, the artifacts would convince the board of directors to fund a full expedition. This tomb would be a groundbreaking discovery in archeological history._

 _But that wasn't his concern—he was just the delivery boy._

 _So intent was he on wrapping the pieces properly that he didn't notice the eyes on him. He didn't notice the faint rustle of scales sliding over stone. He didn't notice the presence looming over him. Not until it was too late._

 _Jersey yelped as the scaly body wrapped around him. The hissing echoed off the walls—an anaconda. Jersey jumped up, trying to escape the crushing grip, but the snake held fast. They rolled on the ground, knocking over the mummy. The fallen torch lit some of the basket scraps ablaze, creating blazing flames that dazzled his eyes. The anaconda's breath washed over his face, its tongue slipping out as if to sample its dinner. As the snake's grip tightened, he felt a wave of dread wash over him. This could be it. This could be the end. After so many adventures, so much time, he was going to end up as snake chow._

 _Adrenaline shot through him, masking the lightheadedness that was starting to overcome him. Jersey Pines was not going to die like this. Not here, not now, not to some scaly jerk. He bucked wildly, managing to slip one arm out of the tightening coils. He grabbed the anaconda's head and charged at the wall—_

"—So I smashed it against the wall until it let go, then I bashed its head in with the burial mask. Solid gold face masks: very heavy, good for bludgeoning. And that's how your local museum got an awesome new mummy exhibit. Any questions?" Stanley "New Jersey" Pines asked. The audience of college students stared back blankly. Finally, one raised her hand.

"That's a neat story, Mr. Pines, but how does it apply to archaeology?"

Stan sighed. Always the same with these bookworms… For such smart people, they could be awfully dumb. He tilted his signature fedora back to meet the student's gaze. "Lemma answer with another question: how many of you are taking some kind of gym class right now?" Dead silence. "What about gymnastics? Self-defense? Anyone exercise regularly?" The students fidgeted awkwardly. Just as he suspected.

"You're not always gonna be working in air-conditioned libraries, kids. You're gonna be in the field at some point, and it's usually gonna be somewhere awful. Scorching sun, biting wind, insects the size of your hand. Brains won't help you then. You'll need strength. Endurance." Stan planted his hands on his hips, giving the students a stern look as comprehension dawned on their faces. " _That_ is how this lesson is applicable. You may not ever have to wrestle a giant snake or spelunk into a tomb, but you _will_ need to hike lugging all your equipment on your back. You'll have to work for hours on end under the sun without dropping from heatstroke or exhaustion. So take the opportunity now to toughen up—take up boxing or jogging or something. Take care of your body like you take care of your mind. It'll pay off—trust me. Any more questions?"

There were none. The professor came up beside Stan, clapping politely. "Thank you, Mr. Pines. Class, please give our guest speaker a show of thanks."

There was a wave of gentle applause which was quickly drowned out by the bell. Stan followed the students as they filtered out. He noticed a familiar figure waiting by the door. "Fiddlenerd!"

"Jersey." Fiddleford replied with a touch of exasperation. He'd long since given up objecting to the nickname. "Your lecture go well?"

"Not bad. They wouldn't let me show my scars, though."

"Thank goodness." Fiddleford said drily. He handed Stan a package wrapped in brown paper. "Ah picked up yer mail on my way here."

"What's this?" Stan looked the package over curiously.

"How'm Ah supposed ta know? It's your mail. Didja order a dictionary or somethin'?"

Stan had not. The package did feel like a dictionary—thick and heavy with a hard cover. The return address had no name, only a location—Gravity Falls, Oregon. Not any place Stan had heard of. He tucked the package into his jacket with a shrug. He'd deal with it later. "Thanks. Am I still invited to dinner tonight?"

"You'd better come—Tate's itchin' ta see ya. He loves yer stories." Fiddleford walked with him down the hall. "Just remember ta keep 'em kid-friendly, ya hear? He had nightmares after that 'temple o' doom' yarn ya spun."

"I had nightmares after that, too." Stan squinted as they stepped out into the sunlight. The campus was bustling as students rushed to get to their classes. Stan smiled at the sight. Backupsmore wasn't the most prestigious university, but it was the one he visited most often. He felt at home here. The faculty never looked down on him; he was treated as an equal despite his rough exterior. Other universities may invite him to speak, but he never felt the same sense of belonging as he did here.

 _I've come a long way in ten years…_ He thought with a melancholy smile. A high-school dropout from New Jersey, now a jet-setting treasure hunter. His childhood dream come true.

Well… almost.

"Jersey? Stan? Stan!" Stan blinked as he realized Fiddleford was taking to him. The engineer gave him an odd look. "You okay?"

"Sorry. Just thinking."

Fiddleford smirked teasingly. "You, thinkin'? Ah should check the sky fer flyin' pigs."

"Ah, shuddup." Stan gave him a friendly punch on the arm, not bothering to hide a grin. "I'll see you at dinner. Six, right?"

"See ya then." The friends parted ways. Stan headed for the parking lot, where his El Diablo stood out like a sore thumb among the sensible faculty cars. He had a few hours to kill for dinner. He could look through the job offers he'd gotten lately and decide where he was going next. And see what that package was about—

"Mr. Pines?"

Stan froze with his hand on the car door. He turned to see three men in trenchcoats and hats standing behind him. They looked too clean-cut to be street thugs, but their formation around him was too much like a flanking maneuver for comfort.

"Gentlemen." Stan turned to face them, surreptitiously slipping a hand into his pocket where his brass knuckles rested. He wished he had his trusty bullwhip, but the university wouldn't allow him to carry it on campus. "Can I help you?"

One of the men stepped forward. He removed his hat, bowing slightly in respect. "Forgive the inconvenience, Mr. Pines. Our employer wishes to speak with you."

* * *

The room was bigger than Stan's apartment and a thousand times fancier. The pristine white furniture looked like it had never been used, and every surface was either marble or polished wood. Stan eyed the chandelier hanging above him—crystal, and worth more than he made in a year—and wondered what he'd gotten himself into. The trench-coated men had instructed him to wait and then left. He could hear the sounds of a party from the next room—the classy kind of party where you ate finger sandwiches and laughed snootily at bad jokes. At least he didn't have to sit through that—he'd been to enough stuffy museum banquets to last him a lifetime.

Stan was admiring an oil painting when the adjoining door opened. A man in a bespoke tuxedo stepped into the room. He was older than Stan, with crow's feet around his eyes and temples that were turning silver, but he projected an air of unshakeable dignity. He looked vaguely familiar.

"Good evening, Mr. Pines—or should I call you 'Jersey?'"

"Either one works." Stan shook the man's offered hand, trying to place him.

The man gave a dazzlingly-white smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Pines, then. I hope my men didn't alarm you. Permit me to introduce myself: I'm Winston Northwest."

It finally clicked. "I know you! You give grants to Backupsmore." Stan had seen him at museum fundraisers. His name was prominently engraved on the college's plaque of donors. "You're a generous man."

"I have a passion for archaeology—for uncovering the past. That's something we share."

Stan shrugged. "I'm no archeologist. I'm just the guy they bring to be the meat shield."

"You're too modest." Northwest produced a bottle of champagne out of thin air and poured two glasses. "I've read about your exploits. Deadly animals, hostile natives, booby-trapped ruins—if even half the stories are true, you're practically invincible."

Stan took the glass of champagne, meeting Northwest's eye. "I appreciate the flattery, but I doubt you brought me here just for that."

"Very astute. I have something to show you." Northwest led him to a coffee table where a delicate linen cloth covered something underneath. Northwest moved the cloth to reveal a vellum scroll. Stan settled himself into a chair—Sweet Moses, that was comfy!—and leaned forward to examine it. The scroll was cracked and yellowed with age. It was covered in flowing script in a language Stan didn't recognize. The words surrounded a sketch of a pyramid with a large, lidless eye in the center.

"Wow…old paper." Stan sipped his champagne. "Well, parchment. Looks North American...Pre-Columbian, probably?"

"Very good for someone who claims not to be an archaeologist."

"I spend a lot of times around nerds. Stuff rubs off." Stan squinted at the writing, trying to make out the letters. "What language is this?"

"That's just it—it isn't a language. It's a cipher." Northwest explained. "This scroll was found recently in a crypt in northern Oregon. My experts dated it back to 1000 AD—well before the Eye of Providence symbol was in use."

"Huh. Fancy that." Stan leaned back into the chair. "It's interesting."

"It's more than interesting, Mr. Pines." Northwest began pacing, his gestures getting wilder as excitement took over. "I was able to find someone to decrypt it. The cipher talks about a muse—a creature beyond this dimension, who could mold reality to his will. A creature who could grant one's deepest desires."

Stan could see where this was going. "That's a nice legend. Though I'm guessing you think it's more than just a legend…"

"Precisely!" Northwest whirled around, eyes gleaming manically. "The history of the area contains hundreds of tales about this muse. Evidence suggests he was worshipped for centuries by the natives. This scroll is a breakthrough, a chance to prove that the stories are more than myth!"

"And why's that?"

"Because it contains directions to a shrine." Northwest met his eye seriously. "A shrine where the muse left a blessing to mankind. If the shrine can be found…just imagine the possibilities." He resumed his anxious pacing. "For the last 6 years, I've been funding a project to find the shrine. We were so close to a breakthrough… until our top expert vanished along with all his research. You have a knack for finding lost things, Mr. Pines. I'd like you to take over the project."

"Uh-huh." This guy was crazy. Normally Stan didn't care about someone's sanity if they were offering him a job, but something about this felt wrong. His instincts had kept him alive through ten years of dark tombs and rival grave robbers; he wasn't about to start ignoring them. He stood up and slugged back the last of his champagne. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm a treasure hunter, not a people hunter. If you want a researcher, you got the wrong Pines."

"Yes, your brother is the more intellectual one, isn't he?"

Stan nearly choked on his Chardonnay. He coughed, gaping dumbly at Northwest. "You…you know my brother?"

"Stanford Pines. Brilliant young man. His expertise and interest in paranormal matters made him perfect for the job." Northwest met Stan's gaze grimly.

"Your brother is the researcher who vanished."

* * *

 *****  
 **A/N: I know nothing about archaeology and very little about the Inca, so please forgive any inaccuracies in my descriptions or term usage. If people like this, I'll work on the next chapter (heck, even if people don't like it, I'll probably continue it). Big thanks to journal129 for beta-reading!**


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